


B. Call

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Inspired by Twitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-24
Updated: 2011-07-24
Packaged: 2019-11-24 22:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18170447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Cool, aloof, unavailable Ice Queen for the 21stCentury.





	B. Call

**Author's Note:**

> Twitter postings strike again. Also, thanks to [](http://iwasmadetolove.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://iwasmadetolove.livejournal.com/)**iwasmadetolove** for the defining tweet.
> 
> Disclaimer: Great googly moogly, _soooo_ not my characters.

It was sort of fun, watching Mark Darcy sweat.

Not literally, of course, though that was usually fun too. No, she was currently doing her best to channel Ice Queen when it came to the man who was currently flooding her Twitter timeline with thinly veiled "@" messages that made it very clear he wanted to see her. Sample view:

_B-how's the article coming? Free for dinner?_

_B-worried about situation in Japan. Would like to see you, get drink & discuss._

_B-have toothache. Can't sleep. Pot of chamomile tea for 2 ?_

He was now up to eight such messages in the space of fifteen minutes, and with each one she laughed a little bit louder. He was rather adorable when he was trying to be circumspect about his wants and needs, but eight messages and counting were a bit much. Equally hilarious were the comments from other people—from _strangers_ —who were (and continued to be) less shy about pointing out how obvious his motives had been. He hadn't publicly acknowledged them, but she would've thought he'd understand that the messages he sent to her this way were completely visible to all.

She raised her glass and took a long sip of wine, setting down her smartphone on the sofa cushion beside her then resting back on the chaise arm. It was uncommon for her to have a night alone in just listening to music; she was often working late or out with the girls… or with Mark, though lately they had not been getting on smoothly, prone to bickering over things of little consequence. When they had last spoken he'd had the final word, an inconsequential but ill-spoken comment that he looked like he'd regretted immediately. 

She wasn't truly upset or angry with him, and in fact she couldn't remember exactly what it was he'd said, but it was then she'd decided to punish him for it. 

She drained the glass, then set it on the floor, looking at her phone, at her Twitter feed, one more time.

_B-current govt scandal giving me insomnia. Ideas welcome xxx_

She chuckled—the 'x' kisses were a nice touch—then set her mobile on the floor next to the wineglass, resting her head on the sofa arm, the music and the wine conspiring to lull her into sleep. They succeeded, and she floated off with a smile on her contented face into deep slumber; so deep, in fact, that the touch of tender fingers sweeping her fringe back off of her forehead surprised her as much as the kiss placed on her lips. 

It was Mark.

"You can't ignore _this_ ," he murmured softly as he drew back, his gaze dark and soulful.

She could not help feeling as satisfied as she did, but did her best to conceal it.

"I'm sorry for being a bit of a prat," he continued in a chastened tone, stroking her cheek with his fingertips, brushing his thumb over her jaw. "Nothing drives me to despair as much as the thought of you not speaking to me."

She pushed herself upright, tilting her head, feigning seriousness, for all the world hoping to appear unmoved.

"Okay. More than a bit," he went on. He glanced down then up to her again, his expression exceptionally pleading. "I'm already on my knees. I don't know what more I can do to beg for your forgiveness."

"You could be honest," she said in a sepulchral voice.

"Honest?"

"Mm, yes," she said in a patronising and insulted voice. "About what you really want tonight. Dinner, drinks, chamomile tea, my eye. I suppose even dignified human rights lawyers need to make a… _bootycall_ once in a while."

He looked shocked and indignant, and got to his feet. "That is _not_ why I'm here."

"Are you saying you _don't_ want me for a night of wanton sex?" she asked, feigning further offence, rising to her feet.

" _Bridget_ ," he said, exasperated. 

"You don't want to tear my clothes off, pin me up against the wall, completely wild and uninhibited—?" It was at this point, at the weird expression on his face, that she was unable to continue in such a prudish, condescending tone, and cracked a smile then burst into uncontrolled laughter.

"Bridget," he said again, exasperated once more for an entirely different reason.

"So you do know the concept of the bootycall?" she said breathlessly.

"I have heard of it," he said. "I did want to see you. Make sure you weren't angry with me."

"And you didn't want sex at all," she teased.

"Well…" he began, smiling a little.

She laughed again.

He then asked, "You're not angry with me?"

"Never was _truly_ cross," she admitted. "Do occasionally enjoy making you realise how much you miss me when I'm not around, though."

He reached forward and quickly took her into his arms, pressing kisses into the hair at her temple. "That I do," he said, then drew back to place a proper kiss on her lips. As he did his lips lingered, quickly descending into a long, deep, desperate kiss; his hands moved down to her waist, her arse, and pressed her into him. She caught her breath as she broke away; there was no denying she had missed him, too. "If this _is_ a… bootycall," he growled quietly into her ear, "it's all your fault."

"What do you mean, 'if'?" she said with a sigh.

This was his cue, evidently, to sweep her up into his arms and carry her off to her bedroom. The fact that he made no comment about the state of its untidiness spoke volumes about his single-mindedness that evening. He stripped her quickly of the short cotton nightgown, practically tore her pants off, before he divested himself rapidly of his own clothes and pulled her down onto the bed.

He enfolded her in his arms and kissed her once more, leaning her back against the duvet and closet discards. He took her hands and lifted them to stretch her arms, elbows bent, up and over her head. At her undoubtedly quizzical look, he commanded, "Leave them there," as if he did not want her to interfere with his exploration. His hand then trailed down and over her skin as if he had never touched it before, cupping her breast, teasing the nipple with his thumb before continuing down to stroke the skin at her waist and hips. She gasped as he squeezed her arse gently then guided her legs apart.

"Missed you," he breathed, moving on top of her, bringing his hand up to her breast again to cup it before turning to place his lips upon it, to take the hard point between his lips, then graze it gently with his teeth. 

"Couldn't— _ah!_ —tell," she said in an attempt to be flippant just as his fingers swept over her tender inner thigh.

He made a satisfied sound low in his throat, rolling his tongue over her nipple as his fingertips flitted just between her legs but went no further, despite her eagerness and desire for him to do just that. She groaned. He chuckled.

"See what it's like to be kept waiting?" he teased, placing his mouth on her throat, teeth against her skin then nibbling at her ear. Despite his obvious wish to prolong her agony just as she'd done to him, the fact that he was shifting as he was told her that he had every intention of relieving his own agony sooner rather than later, and even as she considered holding him at bay to tease him in return, she tilted her hips up in anticipation. He didn't wait a moment; he leaned forward to brace himself on his forearms then drove forward, moaning low in his throat in concert with her own gasp as they connected.

His hands found and clasped her own as he continued to thrust up into her, nuzzling into her neck. She arched up in time with him and quickly they found their rhythm; she quite liked being pinned to the bed in this manner, dominated completely by him from the tops of her fingers to the tips of her toes… even if she did miss touching his skin, pressing her fingers into the cords of his lower back to urge him on. Tonight he hardly needed urging, though. Having had a dry spell as long as they'd had meant it didn't take long for either to reach their respective peaks, and with great heaves of breath and increasingly loud guttural utterances they each were trembling, shuddering then going taut with that last final push to climax. When it was over, they clung to one another, bathed in sweat and exhausted with their efforts. Neither stopped her from kissing him, nor him kissing her in return.

She sighed in utter contentment. She always liked it when he was a little more aggressive; his reticence usually spilled over into even their intimacy, so she loved to allow his passion free rein when he chose to take that initiative. 

"If this is what is known as a bootycall," he said quietly with a discernible edge of amusement in his voice, "then I am a wholehearted supporter."

"Mark," she began, suddenly curious, "where on earth did you even hear what that means? You're such a goody-goody."

He laughed, holding her close. "One of the Twitter people, er, explained it to me."

She burst out with a laugh. "Twitter people," she echoed between chuckles, then reared her head up to kiss him again before settling down on the pillow.

Within a few moments she could hear his breathing level out, then heard him softly start to snore. She tried not to laugh; so much for insomnia. As she drifted to sleep, she wondered if the Twitter people would interpret his sudden Twitter silence correctly, and smiled smugly.

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration (times in PDT):
> 
> **markdarcylegal**  
>  @bridgetjoneshf ...b..what book are you reading tonight? I have tooth ache. This hacking things giving me insomnia.  
> [7/20/11 2:18 PM](https://twitter.com/markdarcylegal/status/93791801869205505)
> 
> **[iwasmadetolove]**  
>  @markdarcylegal @bridgetjoneshf Toothache? Is that what we're calling it nowadays? Sounds like code for bootycall to me.  
> [7/20/11 3:42 PM](https://twitter.com/mrsfitzwilliamd/status/93813137538695168)
> 
> **markdarcylegal**  
>  B.... Are I'm worried about east africa....can we meet. X  
> [7/21/11 1:04 PM](https://twitter.com/markdarcylegal/status/94135674705428480)
> 
> **markdarcylegal**  
>  B.....I'm more worried about France now... Not so much Italy...did you know Livia is Italian?  
> [7/21/11 1:08 PM](https://twitter.com/markdarcylegal/status/94136807725346816)
> 
> **markdarcylegal**  
>  @bridgetjoneshf ...I have decided that lukashenko is a dictator...we must do something...fancy dinner?  
> [7/21/11 1:12 PM](https://twitter.com/markdarcylegal/status/94137642865790976)
> 
> **markdarcylegal**  
>  @bridgetjoneshf ....I'm worried about the media....should we go for a late night drink?  
> [7/21/11 1:13 PM](https://twitter.com/markdarcylegal/status/94137845970767872)
> 
> **markdarcylegal**  
>  @bridgetjoneshf I'm not worried about @liviafirth ...should I come round to chat about east africa?  
> [7/21/11 1:14 PM](https://twitter.com/markdarcylegal/status/94138190771924993)


End file.
